


Crooked Lines

by red_crate



Series: 2017 Kinktober Collection [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Beta Chris Argent, Comfort Sex, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Rimming, Season/Series 01, Sheriff Stilinski is a Bad Parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-16 11:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12341781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate
Summary: “What happens in heat, stays in heat.”All he wants is to make the kid feel better, to help speed things along so Stiles doesn't have to writhe in agony. He can't knot Stiles—tells himself he wouldn't even if he could—but he can still do something.





	Crooked Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Twisted_Mind who talked this out with me a while back. This is the much more condensed version.
> 
> Written for day 13 of Kinktober: rimming
> 
> Warnings: 1) Yes, this is underage. Stiles is sixteen and Chris is in his late thirties/early forties. 2) I marked this as mildly dubious consent because of the nature of a/b/o plus the fact that I state explicitly in the fic that what Chris does is illegal.  
> If either of these things make you uncomfortable, hit the back button. For what it's worth, I don't think this fic is all that dark though there are some Not-Okay elements to it. But this is also fiction.   
> Look out for yourself, babe.

 

Chris has spent the last twenty minutes arguing with himself over the fact that he'd offered to let Stiles stay the night rather than go back home next door. Concern, which is what got him in this predicament in the first place, has him hovering outside the guest bedroom an hour later.

He knocks on the door hesitantly.

“Stiles? Is there anything I can get you?”

Even though he's not an alpha, Chris can smell the need rolling off Stiles through the cracks around the door. The scent doesn't affect him nearly as strongly as it would an alpha, but he still finds tension coiling in his muscles. He knocks again when he doesn't get an answer from Stiles.

“Hey—”

There's a thump, and the door opens an inch, revealing one of Stiles’ eyes and a sliver of his cheek. The humid, woodsy scent of him hits Chris in the face. “First, can we never speak of this day again, ever?”

The words snap Chris into focus, and bring a smile to his lips. Even on the verge of heat, Stiles is still, well, _Stiles_. “Yeah, I think I can make that deal.”

He may have never dealt with a heat of his own, but Chris has had his fair share of lovers before and since his wife. He knows how awful heats can be for omegas. That's why he offered to let Stiles stay the night once he realized why the kid was acting stranger than usual and why his scent was off. Stiles’ eyes had gone huge and his face bloomed red in mortification at first, stammering about heat suppressants and how his doctor clearly hasn't gotten the dosage right yet. He'd accepted the offer, however, clearly not looking forward to being stuck at home alone while he felt vulnerable.

Stiles seems to slump against the wall, opening the door a little further. He's not wearing his hoodie, flannel, or t-shirt. There's much more bare skin than Chris is used to seeing from him.

“My keys are hooked on my backpack downstairs.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before continuing. “Go up to my room. There's a box under my bed. _Do not open the box_. Bring it to me.” Stiles opens his eyes and gives him a pleading look. 

“I’ll grab a couple water bottles and some protein bars too.” Chris doesn't mention the box, because it's clear Stiles would rather talk about anything other than that. “My phone is on me, so if anything happens call me, okay?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah. Okay.” He chews on his bottom lip some, then says, “I'm gonna close the door now.”

“Alright. I'll be back in no time.” Chris watches, waiting.

Stiles stares at him for a long second, then finally shuts the door.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, Chris jogs down the stairs to find Stiles’ book bag. It's thrown on the kitchen island where he and Allison usually do their homework together. Stiles had been waiting for Allison to get back from Scott's so they could study for a chemistry test. Chris unhooks the keys from the bag, and crosses to the Stilinski home.

While he's walking up the stairs, he has the realization that he should call the sheriff and tell him what's going on with his son, where he is. Chris pushes the thought away. The sheriff works long hours and double shifts more often than Chris would agree with considering there is no one else for Stiles to rely on. That's why Chris didnt object when Allison started bringing Stiles home with her from school. A petty part of him thinks the sheriff should already be aware of the general timing of his kid's heat, and should have known to arrange his schedule so he'd be home at night.

The box Stiles mentioned is a battered Adidas sneaker box. It's light, but something rolls around inside when he picks it up. Chris tucks the box under his arm and tries not to think about it. In his own kitchen, he finds a tote bag and stuffs several unopened bottles of water, some protein bars, a few pudding snack packs, and a spoon inside it. The trip takes less than ten minutes.

When he knocks, calling out Stiles’ name, he doesn't get an answer. Another knock after a few moments and still nothing. Anxiety swoops through him at the thought of Stiles hurt and unable to respond.

Chris wraps his fingers around the door knob. “I'm coming inside, Stiles. I need to know you're okay.”

Stiles whimpers, quieting the last bit of resistance Chris has to opening the door without express permission. He steps inside, fingers tight around the tote bag’s handle, and finds Stiles lying on the bed completely naked.

“What happens in heat, stays in heat.” Stiles seems to bite the words out, jaw clenching as his back arches. He's got one hand wrapped around his cock with the fingers of his other one buried in his ass.

Chris’ mouth goes dry. He looks anywhere but at Stiles as he tries to scrape his brain cells together. He shouldn't be surprised by any of this, but he can't help the way the smell and look of Stiles is affecting him. He can feel his own cock taking interest, chubbing up in his jeans.

“Chris.” Stiles whines his name, and it sounds so broken. “Chris, please?”

He has to look at Stiles then, startled when he realized he's drifted closer. His knees are less than a foot from the bed.

“I brought your stuff. Food and drink too.” He sets the Adidas box on the bed by Stiles’ head, and drops the tote to the floor.

“I'm so sorry.” Stiles shudders. His eyes are shut tight, and there's a flush over his skin. “This is humiliating.” The last word comes out breathy.

Rubbing a hand soothingly over Stiles’ knee where he has his leg bent, Chris says, “There's nothing to be embarrassed about. Like you said, we won't talk about it again if you don't want to.” Stiles is shaking his head no, as if he doesn't believe Chris.

“Stiles, hey.” He squeezes Stiles’ shin and tries to ignore the moan that follows. When Stiles opens his eyes and looks at him, Chris says, “What you're going through his hard on your body. It isn't fun, and it's uncomfortable.” Stiles laughs darkly at that, making Chris smile. “You don't have anything to feel embarrassed over.”

Stiles gulps down some air and seems to calm down a little. Chris doesn't miss the fact that Stiles has three fingers as far up his ass as he can get them at that angle.

“I brought your box. You're going to be fine.” Chris runs his hand up Stiles’ shin, palming the cap of his knee.

It's supposed to be reassuring, that's it. Stiles makes a tiny noise at the back of his throat and drops his leg to the side so he's on display. Chris doesn't realize he's been staring at Stiles’ swollen cock until he can see everything. He clenches his hand in a fist at his side and takes a step back.

“It's normal.” Stiles’ voice is thready.

Chris nods his head, grunting in the affirmative. He needs to get out of this room.

As he's turning to leave though, Stiles whines again. He asks, “Can you...can you do something?”

Chris looks over his shoulder at Stiles when he knows he shouldn't. “What is it?”

Stiles holds his gaze, then carefully eases his fingers out if himself. The slick on them makes his skin glint in the light. All at once, he flips on to his knees and stomach. Both hands are beneath him, wrapped around his cock, as Stiles holds himself up with his just shoulders.

He's rocking back and forth when he asks cryptically, “Please?”

Chris isn't proud of it, but he can feel his cock throbbing where it's confined in his jeans.

“You've got your toys, Stiles.” The words grate out of his mouth. Chris turns back towards him. “You've gone through heat before, right?”

“It _sucks._ ” is all Stiles says. He turns his face so his expression is hidden. The sound of his labored breathing echos in Chris’ ear.

“Fuck.” Chris curses quietly and gives into the invisible thread tugging him towards Stiles.

All he wants is to make the kid feel better, to help speed things along so Stiles doesn't have to writhe in agony. He can't knot Stiles—tells himself he wouldn't even if he could—but he can still do something. Chris drops to his knees at the end of the bed and takes Stiles by the hips. He ignores the deep moan Stiles lets out when he forcibly pulls Stiles to the edge.

“Tell me no, if you want me to stop.”

He shakes his head, already feeling shitty for the fact that he's doing this. Stiles can say “no”or “yes”, and it wouldn't matter because it's still against the law for anyone to approach an omega in heat sexually, without pre-heat permission. With Stiles’ age, even if he wanted to make a heat arrangement it would be illegal. If Stiles decides to tell his dad what happened, Chris is going to jail.

_“What happens in heat, stays in heat.”_

He's doing this to help Stiles.

“Answer me.” He smooths his hands down the backs of Stiles’ thighs, pushing them apart further. “Do you understand?” He needs to hear Stiles say it.

“Yeah. Please, Chris. Anything. Just do _something_.” Stiles is begging, pressing his hips back and presenting himself so beautifully.

His entrance is gaping just slightly, relaxed in anticipation of an alpha knot that isn't coming.

“Stay with me, Stiles.” He speaks quietly but firmly, doing his best to sound steady.

When Stiles makes an affirmative sound, Chris traces the pad of one thumb around Stiles’ rim. The slick smears like melted honey. He's so pink, he's almost red from arousal.

The first swipe of his tongue over Stiles’ hole is slow. Stiles tastes musky, his woodsy scent made manifest across Chris’ taste buds. He chases it, pushing the tip of his tongue inside to tease more of it out. Stiles is cursing over and over, shoving back as he tries to fuck himself on Chris' tongue so hard Chris has to pin him down to the bed. The embarrassment and awkwardness he had earlier has completely disappeared in his desperation.

Chris hasn't been with anyone in months, and he can't help but take his time with this. Getting a thumb inside with his tongue takes no effort. He presses his finger just past the rim, applying pressure where Stiles’ nerves are heightened for a knot. His mouth and chin are slick by this point. The smell of Stiles is going to stick in his memory for a long time, Chris just know it. He groans and presses his other thumb into Stiles to keep him full.

Even though Stiles’ heat has only just started, he's turned on enough that he's steadily leaking. Chris licks over Stiles’ ball sac where it's high, close to his body as his orgasm winds tighter and tighter inside until it has to crash. Using the flat of his tongue, Chris presses into the stretch of skin between ass and balls to massage his prostate. A hoarse cry rips from Stiles’ throat.

“Finish yourself.” It takes everything in him to stop from calling Stiles “baby.” He doesn't want to blur the lines though. This isn't anything more than some fucked up attempt to ease Stiles through his heat.

Stiles does as he's told, fisting his cock in one hand. The other he uses to reach back and hold his ass open for Chris. The kid might have been a virgin, but his body knows exactly how best to present itself. Chris imagines who else will one day be here with Stiles, mating him and satisfying him. He hopes they're good, that they take care of Stiles the way he deserves.

Chris pushes those thoughts away, focusing instead on the present. He pries Stiles open just a bit further to imitate the stretch of a knot. Slipping his tongue back inside to trace along the skin his thumbs don't cover seems to be enough to send Stiles careening over the edge.

He calls out Chris’ name, and his fingers scrabble at Chris' hair to hold him in place as he comes. Chris rides it out, lapping up the slick steadily. He doesn't pull his fingers out until Stiles is limp on the bed, legs splayed and knees pointed out.

Chris sits on his heels and stares at Stiles for almost a minute as what just happened registers. He can feel the saliva and slick around his lips and on his chin where it's already starting to dry. Tiny red pinprick patches have popped up on Stiles' skin, burn from Chris' close cropped beard. The rooms smells like sex, like _Stiles and Chris._

His legs are shaky as he gets to his feet.

“Thanks,” Stiles slurs. He's in a lull between spikes, and his eyes are barely slit open when he rolls heavily onto his side to look up at Chris.

“It should be better now.” He wants to run his fingers over Stiles’ short hair, nuzzle into the soft underside of Stiles’ jaw. Instead, he hesitates. “Here.” Chris tugs his shirt off and tucks it to Stiles’ chest.

Immediately, Stiles clutches the fabric to his face and takes a deep breath.

“I'm going to go back downstairs.” He busies himself with cracking open a bottled water and holding it out to Stiles. “Drink this. At least half of it.”

Stiles manages to sit up, and he pulls the bedsheet over to cover his lap, and looks a little more coherent. Taking the bottle, he thanks Chris again. His face is red, and he won't quite meet Chris’ eyes.

“Please don't tell my dad. He'll flip his shit. And I...I really appreciate that, man. Like, holy fuck.” Stiles chuckles, disbelief apparent. “I did _not_ know sex could be like that.”

Chris goes to wipe a hand over his face but remembers both are still covered with the evidence of what happened. He doesn't want Stiles to feel like he's rejecting him, especially when emotions are less stable thanks to the chemical dump going on right now. Still, Chris knows he has to say something.

“It’ll be better with someone you love. I'm glad I could help though. You've got your box, water, and food.” Chris squeezes Stiles’ shoulder lightly, because he can't not touch him at all when he's going to have to leave.

Thankfully, Stiles just nods. “Yeah, I think I've got just about everything I could need.” He smiles shyly. “Thanks.”

Chris smiles at him and says, “I am gonna see about dinner now.”

His retreat is hasty, but Chris makes sure to close the door slowly.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna come hang out with me on Tumblr, I'm [here](http://the-redcrate.tumblr.com)


End file.
